Chapter 32: Could You Loosen Up a Little?

It turned out that this wasn’t the only factory here. Scattered around were five or six other optical military enterprises—some worked together, some made their own distinct products. The visitor gave a brief introduction: “So, in general, we have a relationship of equals. Since the 1960s, we’ve been producing specialized optical equipment: mortar sights, tank periscopes, aviation targeting devices, anti-aircraft gun control instruments.”

“A few years ago, when we switched to making cameras, each factory went its own way. In fact, we now have two or three brands; anyone can make them.”

The salesman from last night, after much thought, called another factory to share the news. Their sales section chief set out before dawn, cycling over twenty kilometers to arrive.

“We have a prototype—designed solely to take pictures, everything simplified. The factory price can be as low as twenty-two yuan.” As he spoke, he carefully lifted it from the leather case he carried.

Wei Dong almost burst out laughing—it looked almost identical to the “high-end” domestic SLR camera he’d seen last night. The boxy body, the size of a pocketbook, was fitted with a lens as thick as two fingers. Red, white, and black lines were painted on the lens, giving the illusion of complex adjustability, but in reality, nothing could be moved.

He picked it up, aimed through the tiny viewfinder on the back, and clicked the shutter. After each shot, there was a lever on the right—pull it, and the film rolled on to the next frame. That was all. It didn’t even use batteries, nor any electronic components.

The sales chief demonstrated his skill, loading a roll of film, clicking the shutter, winding the lever, quickly shooting a few frames to show the film was finished. On the left was a small handle attached to a spindle; pull it and the film wound briskly back into its canister. He opened the back, took out the 135 film—it was ready for developing.

“This is just scrap film, but that’s the idea. We used to make rifle scopes and know how soldiers rough-handle them, so our goal was to keep it simple, sturdy, and durable—ideally, with no adjustable parts at all. Only loading and unloading the film is a bit of a hassle.”

Wei Dong turned the prototype over and over in his hands. The SLR cameras he’d seen last night all had solid black plastic lower halves and a silver metal top. This one was all black.

The sales chief explained further: “All the factories share the same molds for the body, but to cut costs, we use phenolic plastic—bakelite—instead of polycarbonate, ABS engineering plastic, or aluminum alloy. That saves several steps and a lot of money. Only the axle uses metal, which is why the cost is so low.”

Essentially, it was just a lump of plastic with a fixed lens. When the shutter snapped, light hit the film—exposure done.

Wei Dong was intrigued. Gou Dan, Er Feng, and Old Mrs. Shi had all expressed a desire to have their photos taken. He himself had wanted to take pictures while strolling around West Lake and Shanghai. Seeing so many new things made him want to capture and keep them. He also wanted to photograph his parents as a memento of their days making spicy hotpot.

This kind of demand was as urgent as everyone’s longing to buy a tape recorder. It was like, in later years, how everyone had to snap a photo and post it to their social feed no matter what happened—an enormous market.

So it wasn’t necessary for the photos to be as professional as those taken by Manager Zhang and his artistic circle. The brats at the tax bureau bought all sorts of fancy gear, but in the end it just collected dust.

Anyway, it was only a matter of time before phones replaced all of this. Why make it so complicated?

He nodded. “When can you start producing? I can try selling them.”

The sales chief looked at him. “How many could you take?”

Wei Dong really had no idea. “Five hundred? A thousand? Send me a small batch first. If I can sell them, I’ll order a lot more.”

The sales chief was unfazed. “Alright. All the molds and parts are ready, and we’ve already simplified the designs. Once we start mass production, we’ll let you know. Give me the contact for Red Light Factory.”

He couldn’t just hand out the factory’s contact details, but the store’s hand-cranked phone was still installed. For the first time, Wei Dong left the number for an operator-assisted line: “District Two, Jiangnan, connect to Red Light Store. But there might not be anyone there during the New Year.”

The only phones he’d used at the tax bureau a decade later were internal one-to-one lines. It wasn’t until twenty years later that the gatehouse had its own phone, and after that, everyone used mobiles. He’d never actually used a hand-cranked phone like this, needing an operator to place long-distance calls.

No wonder the phone at You Qili’s place only took incoming calls and the bills weren’t cheap.

Seeing this official registered line, the sales chief trusted him more. “Alright, we’ll definitely contact you after the New Year!”

Wei Dong decided to take him back to the factory. The other man used the same ploy: “This sample is for you to try out. It’s not worth anything here. If you have any suggestions, call us.”

Wei Dong, having gotten a free camera, reciprocated, “Your ‘West Mountain’ brand isn’t great—sunset over West Mountain doesn’t bode well.”

The name was stamped into the camera’s body, filled with white paint—eye-catching, but clumsy.

The sales chief was puzzled. “Our factory sits on West Mountain. That’s where the name comes from.”

The SLRs had also been renamed after their own local mountains after the Guangdong Hong Kong brand was phased out. It was all very casual.

Wei Dong had lived through the eras of home appliance and mobile phone branding, and was especially taken with the recent “Yanwu” brand. Pointing at the “X” mesh on the tape recorder in the cab, he said offhandedly, “Why not call it ‘X’ or something like that? Sounds imported. Also, don’t use Chinese on the manuals or packaging—make it in English, Japanese, or Russian, whatever, as long as the diagrams are clear. It’ll definitely sell!”

It was obvious that all the SLR camera honors had nothing to do with this factory. They could change whatever they liked. The sales chief even took notes. “A few years ago, they couldn’t keep up with demand and had plenty of money, so they wanted to import advanced Japanese technology and production lines. After the New Year they’re going abroad to investigate. You’re wrong to suggest going upmarket—they won’t want to hear it.”

Wei Dong suddenly understood, and even saw a huge pitfall.

The tax bureau had the data. At least in the remote southwest, it was well known: in the 1980s, every state factory in Shangzhou that imported foreign production lines ended up failing. The ones that didn’t go in for all that usually survived the transition.

Because importing always left behind enormous debts. It squandered the precious foreign currency of the 1980s, all for the sake of sending bumpkin inspection teams abroad to widen their horizons. The production lines they brought back were always obsolete, discarded by others—practically junk the moment they arrived.

This slashed the tax base, a loss lamented at meeting after meeting.

Whether the same fate awaited these factories, he didn’t know, but he certainly wouldn’t say a word.

He nodded, saw the man into the factory, and set off for Shangzhou once more.

But the next two or three hundred kilometers took him two whole days. He passed through several counties and cities, but didn’t manage to buy a single roll of film. In Shangzhou, which was even more resistant to new things, it was of course impossible.

Photography was still a skill only handled by photo studios—a monopoly.

It seemed camera sales would not catch on so easily.

Meanwhile, Wei Dong’s attention was consumed by the bitter cold and the increasingly barren and desolate roads. He regretted, countless times, setting out on such a long journey alone.

At first, the excitement of travel was worn away by hours of driving, replaced by boredom as he climbed endless mountains, only to find higher ones beyond.

For five yuan, he could have lounged comfortably in the aisle, napped, and enjoyed pork head and drinks with Gou Dan on the ferry, arriving relaxed.

Here, he was tense, bumping along mountain roads, his back aching. Fortunately, it hadn’t snowed, or this novice driver might have ended up in trouble. Even more fortunately, the truck was in fine shape, never breaking down, and he encountered no highway bandits along the way.

On the second night, with just a little way left, Wei Dong couldn’t bear to spend another night on the road. He pushed on until midnight, finally parking the truck at the mouth of the alley by the tax bureau compound—there was no way to drive into the old street beyond.

In those days, people parked wherever they wanted; there were no tickets to worry about.

He still insisted on carrying everything from the truck into the house, then collapsed, falling into such a deep sleep that he couldn’t feel his own backside.

Was it really worth all this just to drive home for the New Year and show off?

He had no idea how long he slept—he only knew he’d dreamed of something huge and white—when he was roused by a frantic knocking at the door.

He hadn’t been home in almost a month—who could be looking for him?

Still groggy, he opened the door, and there she was—big and... Oh, it was the salesgirl.

Dong Xueying looked as if she was on the verge of tears from relief. “You’re back! You’re finally back. I’ve been checking the window every day, and at last, I saw you come home!”

Wei Dong was still a bit dazed. “What about it?”

The salesgirl grabbed his arm and pulled him along. “This way, this way! They’re waiting!”

He reached back to close the door and followed. “Is Old You out?”

Dong Xueying shook her carefully pinned-up hair. “No, I only just got back from Beijing last month…”

By now, they’d hurried past the trading company—it was true, the seal was still on the door, battered by wind and rain but unbroken.

Finally more awake, Wei Dong stopped in his tracks. “Aren’t the things over there? Where are we going? Who’s waiting?”

His guard went up at once.

Had she really gone to Beijing to petition and gotten mixed up with strange people?

Dong Xueying was nearly yanked off her feet like a truck braking hard, almost tumbling into his arms. “A journalist—from Sunshine Daily. A big reporter came to cover the incident and wants to talk to a local. I thought of what you said last time…”

Wei Dong immediately backed away. “Stop! Are you stupid or what? I only told you what I did out of sympathy for you and Boss You, but I don’t agree with your way of doing things. Don’t drag me into this. And now you want to take me to a reporter? If you want to get yourself killed, go ahead, but leave me out of it!”

He pulled his hand away forcefully. The salesgirl, though not as clingy as a dock worker, was still much bigger, clutching his hand to her chest with all her strength. “Please, I really think only you can explain it clearly. This is a huge issue in backward regions that desperately needs to be addressed!”

He was stuck—her hand caught in the crook of his arm, like a cat pawing at sticky rice, soft and impossible to shake off.